


And Go Home At Last

by curlyfriesandfrosties



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Language, Not Series/Season 08 Compliant, One Shot, Reunion Fic, Season 7 compliant, inspired by a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-26 01:38:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20035747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlyfriesandfrosties/pseuds/curlyfriesandfrosties
Summary: Around mid-morning, Jon finally tells Tormund to shut up. With a surly and sarcastic, “as my King commands,” he stops singing about the giants. Instead Tormund begins a new song. This one is worse ... It is not a happy song. In fact, it’s the most depressing one Gendry can think of (second only to Jenny of Oldstones). Worse still, it dredges up old memories, making him feel sad, wistful, and full of longing. These are not the emotions he needs to feel given that, for the past twenty days and three hours, he has been wrecked with nerves, an upset stomach, and a persistent, heart-wrenching feeling of guilt.





	And Go Home At Last

**Author's Note:**

> In _Throne of Glass_ by Sarah J. Maas, music is frequently referenced as having a great effect on the protagonist. One song, mentioned in the first part, is only described in passing, but it stuck with me and inspired this GOT fic: "She tried to think of music, tried to think of a celebratory tune, but could only recall a solitary line from the mournful bellowing of the Eyllwe work songs, deep and slow like honey poured from a jar: 'And go home at last ...'" (Throne of Glass, Ch.3).

There’s a song about giants that they sing North of the Wall. As of five days ago, Gendry had never heard it. Now, Gendry hates it, because, for five days – five incredibly long, painful days – Tormund has not stopped singing it.

It takes fourteen days to travel from White Harbor to Winterfell. Sixteen with a caravan of 6,000 Unsullied, 3,000 Dothraki riders, 500 Northern warriors– Manderly, Flynt, and Hornwood men – and two dragons. The pace is both agonizingly slow and relentless all at once.

Jon is eager to return home, Gendry knows. And there is, of course, the looming threat of the end of the world. But Gendry doesn’t care for riding.

For the first ten days, things remained quiet. Gendry tried to enjoy the scenery. Jon rode with the Queen and pointed out various landmarks: ancient castles, towering forests, frozen waterfalls.

On the eleventh day, Gendry couldn’t stand it anymore. He needed a distraction from his aching buttocks, frozen fingers, and sore thighs. So, he asked if anyone knew any songs. He wished he hadn’t. Tormund, as it turns out, knows hundreds of songs. For that first day, he sang many of them. He didn’t have a terrible voice, but he certainly wasn’t a true musician.

As dusk fell on that first day of ear-splitting misery, Tormund began “The Last of the Giants.” To Gendry’s astonishment, Jon joined in. Perhaps it was because of the incredulous looks, or perhaps it was because Gendry asked Tormund to be silent after the sixth verse, but Tormund had decided that “Last of the Giants” should be Gendry’s own personal torture. Any time the pseudo-minstrel saw Gendry, he began to sing the song again – either loudly or in undertones.

Now, five days later, as Tormund hums it under his breath while the break their fast, Gendry has a feeling that the choice of tune might be a joke about his stature. Compared to Gendry, Tormund_ is_ a giant.

* * *

Around mid-morning, Jon finally tells Tormund to shut up. With a surly and sarcastic, “as my King commands,” he stops singing about the giants. Instead Tormund begins a new song. This one is worse.

Gendry knows this song. He can’t remember the name, but it tells a story of a knight. This knight goes on a journey with his companions, to win glory and honor, blah, blah, blah. In facing so many dangers – monsters and restless seas – the man’s companions die one by one, until, finally, the man finds that he is alone. He spends the next seven years trying to make his way home only to find, upon his return, that his wife has re-married and his sons no longer recognize him. He begs the gods to let him ‘go home at last’; but then throws himself into the sea, overcome with despair because home no longer exists.

It is not a happy song. In fact, it’s the most depressing one Gendry can think of (second only to Jenny of Oldstones). Worse still, it dredges up old memories, making him feel sad, wistful, and full of longing. These are not the emotions he needs to feel given that, for the past twenty days and three hours, he has been wrecked with nerves, an upset stomach, and a persistent, heart-wrenching feeling of guilt.

On that morning Gendry had learned they were going back to Winterfell, his chest had caved in. He’d known they would return to Winterfell, but knowing and actually going to Arya’s childhood home were different things entirely.

_Arya_.

His past, his present choices, his motivations, and his goals all revolved around Arya. He’d pledged allegiance to Jon under the pretense of the bond of their fathers. But he wouldn’t have cared a lick for the Starks if not for Arya.

Of course, he did not say such things. In seven years, he hadn’t even uttered her name. It was painful to speak of her or think of her. And, while the thoughts would come unbidden, he could hold his tongue.

And why should he bring it up to her brother – her favorite brother – when Jon knew just as well as he that Arya was probably dead? When Gendry might’ve spared her that fate and failed? Remembering her in silence would save them both a lot of pain.

Gendry remembered the day that he and Arya parted, not willingly of course, but it had happened. On bad days, he felt that he had _let_ it happen. On the darkest days, he wondered if he had _caused_ it to happen – like he’d jinxed himself or called upon the Gods to curse him. He remembered their angry words from the night before Melisandre came. He remembered her tears. And he remembered a promise – perhaps a silly, hopeful, childish promise – that he would return her to her home and see it with her. Finally, he remembered holding her while she cried a child’s tears, hoping against hope that she could and would go home. Or see her family again.

She did not see her family again. She was probably dead. Certainly dead. And Gendry knew he would live with the guilt of losing her, of pushing her away, for the rest of his life. Even serving Jon, saving Jon, wouldn’t make up for it.

Tormund finished the song. It ended sad and low with the line, “and go home at last.” _Home_. Gendry had never had a home. Never had a family. And he had rejected the only family he’d ever been offered, rejected a home. To share her home.

Tormund begins a new song. This one is far lighter than the last.

* * *

When they stopped for lunch at midday, the Queen told Tormund to shut up. This time, whether because of the dragons, or because the petite woman was intimidating on her own, he did.

They rode the rest of the afternoon in silence, Gendry falling behind the nobles – the Queen, Jon, Lord Manderly of Whiteharbor, Missandei, and others – to ride with Ser Davos ahead of the wains. Ser Davos was a much better riding companion, a far quieter one.

Davos, thank-the-seven, didn’t speak until they came in sight of Winterfell. His utterance of “Holy-gods” was not unwelcome either, as Gendry could not contain his own gasp of awe. He had grown up in the shadow of the Red Keep, which was far larger than this castle, but Winterfell _felt_ bigger, stronger, and more powerful. Furthermore, it was absolutely enormous, Though it might be considered squat compared to the spires of Kingslanding, it is sprawling and ancient. It looked like it had stood a thousand years and would stand another thousand more. He hoped it would, given the upcoming conflict.

With a pang, Gendry begins to recognize features Arya had described. Towers, trees, gates, the village and the surrounding hills. He realizes why she loved this place, aside from having grown up here: it is wild, strong, fierce – unkempt even, compared to the manicured gardens of the south. This is the perfect place for a girl to run wild.

Unbidden and unwelcome, the words to Tormund’s song begin playing in his head. It plays and re-plays as they weave through the hills. When the gates open, Jon rides through them at top speed, outpacing the Queen and all others in his excitement.

The last line echoes over and over, accompanied by happy cries and shouts from within the castle: “And go home at last … and go home at last …”

Gendry’s heart is thundering as he passes under the portico and through the gate. His heart sinks lower and lower, until it settles some place in his gut. People are cheering in welcome – for their King, for their saviors, for their friends and family. Gendry does not feel welcome. In fact, he feels as though the castle itself is glaring at him, damning him: _Bring her home. You said you would bring her home. This is not your home. You do not belong_.

He dismounts from his horse, quite inelegantly, and is about to look for a nice quiet place to throw up when he hears it: a very familiar voice. A heart-wrenching, achingly familiar voice.

He turns, searching for the sound.

His heart stops beating.

There she is. Not twenty feet away, wrapped in Jon’s arms, laughing, is Arya. Or is it. He stares, and his eyes are likely bulging. She is older than Arya and her hair is far longer. But, of course, Arya would be older, her hair would have grown. Seven years would do such things.

Jon puts the girl – woman – down. She is smiling from ear to ear. Her teeth are slightly crooked; she is slightly bucktoothed. Her chin is still angular, but her face is no longer pale and her cheeks are no longer hollow. She is still slim. Short. She is wearing a tunic and pants rather than a dress. And, at her waist, a thin blade is belted. It is delicate, light, and comes to sharp, pointed end. Like a needle.

It’s the eyes that confirm it. She scans the crowd, observing and calculating as she takes in the guests to her home. Then her eyes fall on him and stop. He looks into those eyes – grey, huge, and growing round as saucers. It _is _Arya.

Gendry takes a lurching step forward. She does the same, though far more gracefully than he. She moves like a water dancer – or like one should, he supposes, since she’d always tried to be so smooth when she trained.

How could it be possible? How did she survive? How did he not know? Did Jon know she was here? Why hadn’t Jon said anything? Well of course he hadn’t said anything, he doesn’t know that Gendry knew Arya. Had Arya not said anything? Maybe she hadn’t been here before. Maybe she just got here. Does she recognize him? Of course, she does. Because, as he takes his slow steps forward, not entirely of his own volition, she does too. And she is looking at him like she looked at him seven years ago the night before they parted, the night she asked him to be her family – like he was and is the whole world.

His steps come faster, and then he’s running and so is she and suddenly he’s holding her. Lifting her up into the air as she throws her arms around him. Spinning her. She is laughing, hard, and crying a little, and he probably is too.

When he grows dizzy, he sets her down, but he does not let her move from his arms. She doesn’t try, but takes one hand from behind his neck, placing it gently on his cheek. She stares at him, seeming to study every detail of his face.

“Gendry?”

“M’lady.”

She laughs, withdrawing her hand from his face to hold his hand, to look into his eyes. He can’t believe this is real – that she is real. And he doesn’t care if he is making a scene. He doesn’t care about propriety or explanations or rank or anything at all. He doesn’t care if the whole damn world is watching because this is better than anything he had ever anticipated. She is here, alive, and smiling up at him like she can’t believe that he is here either.

After another moment of staring and disbelief, she withdraws her hands from his and put her arms around his torso. He draws her in tight, letting his head fall to her shoulder as she buries her face in his chest. And to Gendry, nothing has ever felt so sweet, so right. He finally feels like he is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Another GOT fic under my belt! After months of post-show disappointment, anger, and depression, I've been able to get back into the fandom a bit. The longer fics take a lot of energy and investment, but I've been able to produce a few one-shots and chapters from the fic notes/ideas I keep on my phone. Enjoy! 
> 
> *I love comments, but, please, constructive criticism only and I won't debate ships.


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